The ideology of sexual liberation continues to be the abiding obsession of high-profile opinion shapers in the post-modern Western world. Indeed, in the mindset of today's ruling class, the drive to undermine traditional notions of libidinal restraint trumps all other agendas, including such familiar standards as the avid celebration of "diversity" and the fierce fomentation of white self-hatred. If, as the saying goes, the Puritan's greatest abiding fear was that somebody, somewhere was having a good time, our contemporary societal elite's most visceral apprehension stems from the notion that somebody, somewhere may be learning to be—horror of horrors—sexually repressed.

I don’t know the exact words of the popular refrain now doing the rounds, but I think it goes something like this: “Now Greece. Now Ireland. Next Belgium, then Spain—panic, panic, panic—collapse of the €uro, blah blah blah, etc., etc.”

When it comes to the Euro, we’ve been treated to one gleeful prophecy of doom after another. And, actually, such doom would be something of a blessing in terms of stopping the worrying march of Euro Federalism, but as with a lot of popular predictions, there is a sizable chunk of wishful thinking involved.

OK, the Euro looks crap right now, but what a lot of people don’t realize—including many who should know better—is that it was always intended to be a bit crap, unlike the Deutschmark that it replaced—more Vorsprung Durch Scheiße than Vorsprung Durch Technik.

Put yourself, for a moment, in the position where Bishop Eddie Long--that sharp-dressing, jewelry-flashing, Rolls-driving Servant of de Lawd who presides over New Birth Missionary Baptist Church, an Atlanta, Georgia Black megachurch--claims to find himself.

You're a pastor of a church body with a massive congregation, one very influential in your community. You are respected, admired, even in many cases idolized, as a true man of God. But you did not enter your life's calling for the adulation; you are in fact completely sincere in your piety. The last thing you'd ever want to do is cause scandal for your flock. If any indiscretion on your part were discovered, the resultant damage to your own reputation would concern you significantly less than the disillusionment it might create among your parishioners.

You’ll have seen the pictures by now. The broken glass of the Conservative Party’s HQ building in central London, the outnumbered and frankly passive police, the ring of cameramen circled round the still remaining shards of glass as yet another plump-faced student mollycoddled in a scarf steps up for his photo op kicking in a bit of broken glass.

Yes, just like when they mispronounce wines and give each other air kisses, the English middle-classes are at it again, imitating the French – all the result of some terrible inferiority complex that Agincourt, Waterloo, the Industrial Revolution, the colonization of North America, the creation of the British Empire, and the Beatles vs. Johnny Hallyday have done nothing to dispel.